Now for Pat:--he's bow-legged,--which comes, as his wife, who admires him, says, from his riding so much to and fro across the panniers on his garron to market and back: but some think he was so from a boy,--still that doesn't matter;--his legs are quite good enough for every-day work, and nature wouldn't be wise to give holiday limbs to a higgler--would she now? Pat's forefathers must have been from beyond-sea parts, I think; or how would he have such a pale face, and large dull black eyes, without one feature, barring the cocked nose, of us raal ould Irish? If he was a fisherman, may be, he'd get a colour; but, as it is, though he never knows a day's sickness, he's as pale as a white night-cap; and his big eye looks like a piece of sea-coal in milk, or a town chimney-sweep in a snow-storm. Pat seems so innocent, that many suspect him to be a rogue,--a little sly, or that way inclined;--but Pat says no, and so does Mistress Doolan, and that's something. People tell how much some men and their wives are alike,--faith! so much, as often to be taken for brother and sister; and its true of Dick Reardon who buys Pat's poultry wholesale and sells them out retail, that he and his good woman are as like one another, as a couple of ducks. But that's not the case with Pat and his deary, for they don't match, and you'd wonder what made them mate. Seventeen or eighteen years ago,--I can't say precisely to a year, but I'll swear to the day,--it was a Tuesday; by token, that it happened the day after Luna mon moch,--the good woman's Monday,--Pat's wife was looking out for him coming home from market; and as he rode down the hill, she saw one of the panniers on the poney weighed down as if it had a load, and the other up in the air. Pat, I must tell you, was the first who brought panniers into this part of the country; the likes o' them was never seen here before, and few with any but himself since. “What ails you, Pat?” said the wife, as soon as Pat came within reach of her voice; it's a little voice when you're near, but it goes a good way for all that:--“what ails you?” says she; “couldn't you sell your turkies?” “May be, I couldn't; what then?” says he. “Then why not load the garron partly o' both sides?” “May be, I couldn't,” says Pat again. “And why couldn't you?” “Mistress Doolan, would you like to be struck in a heap?” “Is it by you, Pat?--what news, then?--any how why not spake it out?” “Don't bother me now; isn't it to The Beg I'm going?” “Wid a load you picked up on the road, Pat, is it?” “Aha!” says he, “can't I keep a thing from you?” “What is it, Pat?” said she; and he'd now just met the wife; for, finding the conversation grow interesting, she had left the door, and walked away up the hill to meet him, quickening her pace at each question. “What is it, Pat?” says she, trying to peep into the pannier; but Pat wouldn't let her. “Sally,” says he,--for that's her name;--“would you think it, that there's mighty bad people about?”